Simon Hawke - The Dracula Caper

"And you say my imagination is overactive?" Stoker said. "Still. I must admit that it is a fascinating hypothesis. One that certainly sounds more rational than my own."

"Well, in any event," said Doyle, "I would say that, all things considered. our first order of business must be to speak with this Count Dracula of yours."

"Our first order of business?" Stoker said. "You mean I am to join you in this investigation?"

"You have already met this Count Dracula, whereas I have not," said Doyle. "And surely you wish to get to the bottom of this matter." "Indeed, I do!" said Stoker.

"Then we must seek out Count Dracula and confront him to see what we can learn. Do you have any idea where he may be found?" "He has a box at the Lyceum," Stoker said. "lie attends our performances with regularity. I expect that we may find him there tonight. The curtain should be going up on this evening's performance within the half hour." "Then there's no time to lose," said Doyle. "Come, Stoker! The game's afoot! We must make haste to the Lyceum "theatre!" • •

Scott Neilson had left the crime lab early, much to the disgust of Ian Holcombe, who was rapidly coming to the end of his rope as a result of all these killings. Neilson had begged off on a pretext, anxious to get back to the command post at the Hotel Metropole and report the latest developments, so he was no longer there when Linda Craven arrived with Dick Larson to warn him that their cover had been blown and that they were moving the command post. Neilson had wanted to waste no time. There had been another murder, but this time Neilson had no doubt as to who the killer must have been. The corpse had been that of a young male, about nineteen years old, found nude in the bedroom of his boarding house. From the state of the body on the bed when it was found and the subsequent examination in the crime lab, it was obvious that the dead man was killed during a sexual encounter and the autopsy left no doubt as to what sort of sexual encounter it had been. It seemed certain now that Tony Hesketh had become a vampire and he had claimed his first victim. A gay vampire, thought Neilson. What a diabolical creature to release upon Victorian London! Hesketh would be able to prey upon the male homosexual population of London with relative impunity. In Victorian England, with homosexuality still largely locked up in the closet, it would be almost impossible for the police to gather evidence about such murders. And those Hesketh victimized but did not kill would not be wry likely to report the assaults. Given the sexually repressed Victorian morality, a young man trying to make his way up in society would hardly admit to having been bitten in the neck and had his blood sucked by another young male. So he would doubtless hide the wound, and soon he would sicken as the infection spread within his body and a new craving began to manifest itself-an insatiable appetite for human blood.

Neilson also wanted to report that Conan Doyle had received an urgent message from Dram Stoker and had rushed off to meet with him. Doyle had crumpled up the note he had received from Stoker and thrown it into a wastebasket. Neilson had retrieved it at the first opportunity. From the message, it seemed that Stoker had stumbled upon something. lie was very anxious to discuss the case with Conan

Doyle. The significance of these two meeting and discussing the murders could not be overlooked. Neilson felt that Steiger had to know at once. Only Steiger was not at the command post. No one was.

Neilson stood inside the empty suite in the Metropole Hotel, puzzled, uncertain what to do. The team had not checked out of the hotel, but the suite was abandoned. He could make no sense of it. Something must have happened, but what'? The arms locker had been opened and it was empty. There were no signs of violence, nothing had been disturbed, there simply wasn't anybody there. Neilson started to feel apprehensive. Something told him he should get out of there, fast. Just as he turned to leave, there came a knock at the door.

Neilson quickly reached inside his jacket and removed the Colt Model 1873 from its specially made leather shoulder rig. It was similar to the gun carried by the other members of the mission support team, a single action. 45 with a 7 1/2 inch barrel. a primitive weapon by the standards of the 27th century, but Neilson was deadly with it. Trick shooting with antique firearms was his hobby, something he had learned from his father during his childhood in Arizona. and he felt far more comfortable with the heavy Colt than he would have with a laser His "fast draw" had been clocked at over a hundred miles per hour and, in one smooth motion, he could cock and tire a single-action revolver like the Colt faster than most people could fire a more modern double-action handgun. For safety's sake, the revolver's cylinder held only five rounds, so that the hammer could rest over an empty chamber. Otherwise, a dropped gun could easily go off. Having only five shots did not worry Neilson. If he could not get the job done with live rounds, he had no business carrying a gun.

He stood just to one side of the closed door, just in case anyone fired at him through it. The knock was repeated. "Who is it?" Neilson said cautiously.

"H. G. Wells."

Wells! It could be a trap.

"Just a moment," Neilson said, and at the same time, he yanked open the door, grabbed Wells with his free hand and pulled him hard into the room, ready to fire at anyone who stood behind him. But there was no one there and Neilson immediately shifted his aim to Wells, who had fallen sprawling on the carpet.

"Don't shoot.'" said Wells. Remaining motionless upon the floor, he raised his hands up in the air, his posture comical and awkward.

Neilson checked the hallway quickly, then closed and locked the door. He glanced at Wells and put away his gun.

"Really, you Americans!" said Wells, getting to his feet and brushing himself off. "I see you've brought some of your Wild West with you to London. Loaded for bear, I see. Or perhaps for werewolf? I have come seeking your three compatriots or whichever of you is in charge."

"Mr. Wells, my name is Scott Neilson. You obviously know a great deal already, but 1 have a feeling that we may be in danger here. Everyone else seems to be missing and it's not like Colonel Steiger to leave the command post unmanned. It is imperative that we go somewhere where we can speak safely."

"Have you a place in mind?" said Wells.

"For the moment," Neilson said, "the best solution seems to be to keep in motion, at least until I can figure out what's happening."

They left the hotel and hailed a coach. Neilson held the door for Wells as he got in, looked around quickly, then got in after Wells and told the coachman to drive them to Trafalgar Square.

The coach headed down Northumberland Avenue towards the intersection of Strand and Charing Cross Road, the central point of London, at the southeast corner of Trafalgar Square, where the monument to Lord Nelson stood. The coachman drove slowly, sitting atop his scat and smoking a bent Dublin pipe. Inside the coach, Neilson leaned back against the scat and drew a deep breath.

"I hardly expected to see you, of all people," he said to Wells. "How did you escape from Moreau?"

"Escape?" said Wells. "There was no need of escaping. I was never a prisoner of Phillipe Moreau. He is my friend."

"I wonder how much you know about your new friend," said Neilson wryly.

"I know that he is from another time," said Wells. "More specifically, from another time line, as I believe you people put it, a universe which exists alongside this one. I know that he had developed the techniques to create the creatures that you seek as part of a wartime laboratory effort known as Project Infiltrator and I know that he abandoned that project to work with Nikolai Drakov, whom you people from the future are pursuing. I have met three of you before, you are the fourth, but I do not know for certain how many of you there are. In any event, I have come to offer you my help and that of Phillipc Moreau."